


Stonefruit

by gimmeshellder



Series: Elysium [2]
Category: Steven Universe (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, Ghosts, a fresh new exciting spectral take on guided masturbation, mention of major character death?, super good and normal coping yessir
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-24 10:47:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30071091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gimmeshellder/pseuds/gimmeshellder
Summary: "A day too soon and they're bitter. A day toolongand they bruise!"Rose finds it hard to leave, lately.
Relationships: Pearl/Rose Quartz (Steven Universe)
Series: Elysium [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2212236
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	Stonefruit

**Author's Note:**

> This will make VERY little sense if you haven't read a-big-apple's extremely deliciously sad-good[The House in the Woods](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28701168/chapters/70366944) (but of course you've read it already..... right???????) Maybe think of this as a lil sneaky sidequest in part 2, sometime after Rose's dream but before she [REDACTED]
> 
> HUGE THANKS to [a-big-apple](https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_big_apple/pseuds/a_big_apple) for the beta, and y'know!!! the damn series!!

Rose fails to find a spare handspade on her hunt through the shed, but she does turn up an old bicycle. One of those blocky, retro things, a deep wine color beneath the dustcloth. Someone years ago must have pharaohed it away behind all these rusty petals of sheet metal. Rose unearths it: ekes it out, gingerly navigating the 52-Card Pickup of miscellany, and leaves the bike leaned against the woodworking bench overnight. After coffee and breakfast the next morning she makes her way back, done up in comfortable kickarounds -- ones that don’t mind some schmutz.

It’s in remarkable condition. The bike. All things considered, anyway, after so long. The dustcloth draped around it like a coroner's sheet must have helped. Rose finds a flaky oil can to lube the chain with when a conspicuous draft rattles it against the windowpane. And an old air pump, cobwebby as a wedding veil, tumbles helpfully from one of the gap-toothed shelves.

Rose smiles; she ties her hair back.

“Do you remember the Sullivan boys? Pearl? Down the street from you?” Unnecessary to add, maybe. How could Pearl forget? But Rose hunkers down to operate, and some of the crusty tools shiver from the pegboard -- a curious tug at her hair.

Ah; right. This will be a new one for the little cousin.

“They went all _moony_ over that big banana seat that came with my… hm. I can’t even remember what kind of bike it was. Maybe a Swinger?" She wipes dark grease from the chain with one hand, turning the pedal with the other. Shakes her head with a tiny smile. “I just wanted to follow you around the neighborhood on yours. And Mother _dreaded_ letting me save up for it. Thought it would ruin my 'feminine sensibilities'…"

The oil bottle _wheezes,_ like it’s squeezed. Almost a ' _Get on with it!'_

Rose laughs. “Sorry, sorry. Anyway. _Pearl_ went out to check the mail one morning after I slept over. And found the three of them with a Phillips head trying to jimmy that _ridiculous_ thing from the seatpost… I heard someone screaming bloody murder from the yard, and ran out to see Pearl with a rake swatting those boneheads over the fence.” A cramping giggle doubles her over: the chain smudges a tacky line of grease along her sleeve. “You chased them for _blocks!_ And the weird goons, they _adored_ you for it… always picked you first for stickball after that.”

The tools jangle like laughing in their hooks on the pegboard -- hard enough to clunk a rashy clawhammer to the floor. And a far-off whistle, tinny and indignant, that only tickles Rose's brain. Little words. Little pieces of them, at least, a quiet language she's glossed over for years. What a waste.

Well -- Rose is the backsliding daydreamer in French all over again. Squinting at the board, mouthing through a frown: _Ça va?_ _Qu'est-ce que tu aimerais faire?_

Her skin goosebumps as one of them whips by. The little cousin, it _has_ to be. She's like a puppy for the stories.

And Rose has obliged! Plenty, these past weeks! So much easier to be free with them -- to pluck memory up by the _joy_ -end -- knowing now she's not alone. The house feels _safe_ where it was only just _secure._ Its little creaks and quirks now the percussion of company. Rose finds her cups of coffee at the kitchen table stretching long into cozy hours, and her trips to town becoming scarce.

It might be noticed. But maybe not. Maybe 'Sharon' will just fade into gossip fodder. Graduate from mild recluse to eccentric hermit, graying in the woods, talking to air. Spurring wide-eyed whispers of _Witch!_ among the neighborhood children.

That's fine with Rose. Really. She can't mind sparking stories like that, not when it feels so good to relive all of theirs.

"And don't bother being modest!" Her giggle snags into a snort at a chilly draft along her cheek -- it brushes like shushing. "She can just ask Garnet, you know. Garnet, you’re with me on this one, right?”

There's no far-off chuckle of a stormcloud this time. But Rose can feel the press of a smile from across the room.

The tune-up is slow going. Pearl was always the handier one between them, (and she keeps distracting herself), but Rose watched often enough to remember the usual suspects: how to get the chain serviceable, tweak the brakepads, get air in the tubes. It's near lunch by the time she tests the gearshift with its little metal teeth, cicada-clicking smooth.

She's just wrapping up the one about Garnet ruining the biology exam (that's _another_ one for laughing -- Rose's stomach has ached for days) as she gives the bike its finishing-touch wipedown. It's a lovely color, really. Just a little worn around the edges. The frame a _hair_ too small for Rose's knees to be happy in the long-term, but nothing that would make it unrideable.

She tests a hand along the seat. Brittle. But fine enough. "May as well," she murmurs. To herself mostly. Then louder, "Take it for a ride, I mean. Right?"

She looks around the crypt of the shed. But the only answer is a hemming gust against the window… which could just be the regular kind. Rose should set up windchimes.

Oh, but. She is a _little_ shy to leave. She isn't sure how it works. Do they come with her? Do they stay? _Que font-ils?_

"Pearl can fit in the basket." Rose hides her nerves with a little grin. And then something that _feels_ like laughter, like a chittering creature in the woods -- and a chilly nip at her ear, chiding -- it all has Rose grinning in earnest.

Whatever bicycle nut claimed "you never forget" must have taken shorter sabbaticals. But Rose's body dusts off its sealegs as she turns the bike carefully onto the beaten road in the near-noon sun. Oh; the warmth feels good. The breeze too. The pedals roll underfoot in an easy pace as Rose heads opposite of her typical trip into town. The rare sheds and houses studded into the countryside are too far to see the windows, like distant moonbases.

The glint of sunlight catches dappling through the leaves; the breeze, too. Rustling. Like a backscratch for the brain. Rose resists closing her eyes. She wants to lean into it. Like the glint from the railroad crossing. And the trees, thinning out, just scraggly saplings as they came closer to the center of town. And the passing buildings -- the perma-cracked window of Nowak's Greengrocer, the cursed florist shop, the Methodist church with its Fish Fry Thursdays, why not Friday? They _never_ got an answer -- Garnet's porch bursting with flowers like a parade float -- the gleaming back fender on Pearl's handmedown Flyer that needed constant TLC, Pearl _babied_ that thing -- and the fenced-in median that skirted the ballpark -- an Elysian hiding place, especially at night -- guarded jealously by the dragonish doberman they spent weeks winning over: Pearl keeping hawkish watch while Rose bartered the leavings of her lunches, rubied bits of _tocino_ through the chainlink --

Some grit snags ( _Ouch!_ Rose blinks, rapidfire) -- she slows to a stop. On the road. She's in the countryside.

Right. That's right. Thick with cedar and hardwoods. She rubs at her eyes, wincing. If there's dust that's kicked up, she must be closer to a highway than she intended.

That explains the fruitstand she sees curbside. Rose thought she was moving farther from people.

"Well hello!" The man springs up from his foldable chair as Rose comes to a cautious stop. "Mostly just plums left, sorry for that." He doesn't seem to care where Rose came from on bike, or that she's mussed head to toe -- just excited to sell out of stock so early. "But I swear they're good ones. We pick 'em _just_ the right time."

Rose has never thought about that. "Is it hard to do right?"

"Harder than others. A day too soon and they're bitter. A day too _long_ and they bruise!"

Rose pays $4.25 for the last apricot, the straggler cherries, and three plums. They jostle in the basket on the trip back.

It's past lunchtime as she piles the fruit into a strainer and hoses them down in the sink. Washes her hands, too, up to the elbow. And again to be thorough. That was the first living person she's spoken to in a week.

She splashes her face. Dabs it dry with a handtowel.

 _It’s still a little strange,_ might be the thing to say. Or _Are you really here now?_ But Rose instead says, "You never liked plums _,"_ to the kitchen. To Pearl. “You seemed to have the worst luck with them." All a matter of timing, apparently. Mystery solved. Rose's mouth tilts. The skin of the fruit glints with beads of water. "And _Garnet_ could pick good ones… but you hated the mess on your fingers. I've only ever seen you eat them over the sink."

Saw. Only _saw_. Rose's mouth untilts.

She shakes a plum dry, and contemplates quartering it. The knives are all clean. There's a faint titter in the pipes, but not much in the way of clatter. The three of them seem a little sleepier midday, a little shyer with the sun high. But Rose's neck prickles with attention as she instead leans over the sink, and bites.

"Oh," she puffs a laugh at the mess of juice. Bumps her wrist against her chin to clear some. It's firm, and sweet. A rare balance of tang from the skin. Perfectly refreshing after the hot ride, though they'll taste much better cold. Rose grins at the kitchen. "I think I lucked out this time."

The second bite starts sweet but her jaw catches. Rose stutters.

Bitter. Flat, mealy bitterness. She pulls back. The fruit has bruised from inside somehow. The whole halo of flesh around the stone is darkly sarcophagal.

Rose discards it. Finishes the cherries, instead.

After, she washes her hands up to her elbows. Again. And washes her face, again. May as well just shower. She makes for the bathroom and _winces_ \-- stood still so long, the bike ride has caught up with her. Every muscle's gone stiff with stringy heat.

Oh. Well. Rose laughs a little. Small surprise. She's good at getting carried away.

"I think I'll take a bath," she announces to the hallway. But doesn't wait for an affirming rattle or burbling pipe in the walls before closing the door behind her. Which, she supposes, doesn't matter much. _30 years too late._

The tub's not the most comfortable size for Rose. She doesn't take baths as a habit, anyway; it's just so much water to use, and she finds it easy to overheat. But she _is_ sore. Too tender in places. A good hot soak should help. And all her regular aches will thank her too, so long as she doesn't linger.

The faucet creaks on; she tests the temperature, and plugs the drain. She winces as she straightens. Gingerly undresses. Rose sighs. Creaky, stickler heat like briars, all along her thighs, deep where the muscle worked. Lungs burning. The hot zippering stitch in her side as Rose chased behind Pearl, scrambling up the hill trail to the overlook -- both of them with hair still mussed like birdnests from their cast-off mortarboards -- Pearl pulling her along by the hand -- beaming at Rose over her shoulder, dark eyes glittering, breathless.

Rose's heart pounds. She can feel it in her mouth. "Pearl?" she hears herself.

The air shifts -- Rose startles -- and then catches Chanel No 5.

"Oh," she laughs, suddenly bashful. She's half-undressed. Rose glances at herself in the mirror. "I just wasn't sure…"

Sure of what? How does that sentence end? Rose isn't sure of that, either. She just… finishes undressing.

_30 years too late._

"I _hope_ we're alone." She uses her toe to pile the clothes out from underfoot. Fidgets some hair behind her ear. "I don't think you want me telling stories about this."

It's wry; it's cheeky. Or it's meant to be. But a heaviness settles in Rose as the words leave her. Should it be strange to say _I miss you?_

Maybe Pearl can sense it. Feathery cold drifts along her cheek, where Rose tucked her hair back. She smiles. Rose cups fingers there, pretends to lean into it. "You're so sweet."

She wonders if her warmth feels good to Pearl. If Rose has anything to offer her.

Cold wisps against her other cheek -- another flyaway lock. Rose puffs a laugh through her nose and tucks it out of the way.

" _Pearl,"_ giggling. And the soft underside of her wrist, too; a brushstroke like snow over her palm.

It becomes a silly little Simon Says: Rose follows the cool touch along herself, tracing the skin in echo… but then takes a cheeky lead. She whisks a thumb along the soft shelf of her jaw, the crest of her lips -- and the tile rings with her laugh at each drifting chill that follows.

Some sleepy, happy mischief _long_ out of use dredges itself up in her. Rose takes her bottom lip between her teeth, and combs her smooth knuckles against her side: lets them lead a lazy ladder from her hip, over her soft waist, until they brush along her breast. Her ribs seize with her dare. A nervous giggle tags along for the wait.

… and the wait.

And. The wait.

Oh. Well. Rose wets her lips. Lets her hand drop to the sink. Silly.

She glances in the mirror to see… herself. Of course. Silly. As if there's any answer there to find. _Bête._

She's just begun to accept that she's ruined the game (and maybe this whole easy, strange arrangement) when Rose _yelps --_ _blustering_ cold blankets nearly half her chest in an eager pour -- and Rose squeaks a laugh, raspy relief -- another _oh!_ when the touch retreats. Mostly! Not all the way. Almost _sheepish._ Like recovering a datenight fumble after getting too fresh.

Rose hiccups another laugh. Smiling. Her cheek nearly cramps.

"A… a little different than you remember. I think." Giddying. Rose scoops up her nerve. And then follows the chill against her breast: cradles the soft weight of herself.

It's _strange._ Touch but not-touch, the tacky cold between her skin and hand. Or maybe not. Maybe Rose can't care what's strange. She can't give a damn as she feels her heartbeat picking up again. She can feel it. She can. Not just in her chest, through her fingers, too, the back of her throat. Pulse rolling steady as the pedals, pulling her along.

Maybe it's just how _long_ it's been, or -- (rush of heat in her cheeks) -- it feels _stronger_ the longer this goes, or… or Rose can sense more? Is more attuned to it? A low, looning moan through the trees outside smooths upward to a sugary hum as Rose touches where she's told. Pearl's perfume comes over like a blindfold -- powdery-soft bergamot -- dark sandalwood -- Pearl, fevery-light on top of her, trembling beneath the thrilling guilt of 2 a.m. (thieved away to the ballpark, that Elysium, no one _ever_ caught them there) -- denim of her taboo jeans scraping -- and her hands, sweetly shaking, searching Rose in tender places,

( _do you like it?_ stammered bare across rich inches of night: _is it good?)_

and yes of course Rose did, of course it was -- it was perfect -- it was _them --_ even with the blocky bleachers digging cool in Rose's back -- the blocky bleachers growing warmer underneath them -- Rose saw stars -- and Pearl's breath, safe against her neck, soft and clean as talcum.

The sink -- the porcelain -- cool, too. Growing warm. Too. The porcelain. Beneath her hand. Rose's.

She swallows. It scrapes. And air? She breathes -- shuddery. Air is harder to come by. Not just from the steam. It's thickening, and clouding the mirror, but not so much that Rose can't see the state of herself.

She swallows, (again.)

Careful… slowly -- ( _trying_ to) -- lets herself give way beneath a wave of warm dizziness. Lets her weight come to rest against the sink on the bracket of her elbow, like… like she's nursing a headrush. She is. Rose _is._ Can almost _feel her_ like this, isn't that crazy? Curling cool in a slim silhouette draped along her back as Rose braces over the porcelain.

"Pearl?" Her voice strains -- too tepid -- she doesn't mean for a question. "Pearl." That feels better. Her eyes close; her lip stings. "Pearl..." It’s the only sound she seems to have.

Rose lets herself: chases the generous, inching cold across her skin, touching everywhere she's touched. She can't get enough _air_ \-- no burning in her lungs, now, but damn near everything else. Her voice _hitches_ when the chill spreads wider, insistent against the plush of her thighs, " _Oh!"_ god, muffled against the sink -- the steam from the bath coats the mirror completely. Camouflaging what must be there: Rose, wide-eyed, hair sticky-frizzed like candy floss against her cheek and forehead. She's panting like an animal.

Oh, but. Oh -- it's good. Rose lets herself. Why not? Why? She pinches her lip between her teeth hard enough to hurt and she follows -- curves her hand against the cold -- against the heat.

The pleasure shocks her in a slow, swirling pang (Rose whimpers) -- has to brace on one elbow as her body flirts with buckling -- gasps -- gasps, again, against the cold pressing her, urging more, touch more, feel _more --_

" _W...wait_!" _Slap_ s her hand against the porcelain to catch her balance -- steadies herself with _both_ hands. Breathing. God. Breathing. Slower. Oh, much too fast. But so good. Rose forces herself upright. "Wait, just… just let me…"

She's _shaking._ It's delicious, but… ridiculous. Rose coughs a laugh. It dislodges a bang, plastered to her forehead.

"… let me… turn off the water." If she doesn't pass out on the way. The cold's retreated, but she can feel the weight of watching.

"My god. Pearl." She can't help the drunk little bubbles of laughter. She tucks the frazzle of hair behind her ear with a shaky hand. And uses it to catch her balance on the wall as she crosses the chilly tile.

The faucet twists off with a squeak. Rose tests the water. Leveling. Easier. Yes. Head clearing, she can feel herself high along her thighs, the mess of this.

But the soreness too. Catching her breath. Heart slowing. Slower. She leaves the curtains shucked aside, and painstakingly eases in.

It _does_ feel good against her muscles. Her eyes close with a groan. With her heart slowing she can feel where she'll ache awhile. In her calves, too. Other places that escaped her notice.

"I might have overdone it." Into the quiet. "On the bike, I mean. Though," she laughs again, tepid, "I never could keep up with you either."

Pearl pulling her along, stitch in her side. Hunched at her desk past midnight. Early crowsfeet peeking. Poring over admissions brochures.

She's bitten her lip coppery. Stop that. Rose's eyes open. Pale steam stretches upward from the water in dreaming cello curves. She's already cramped. She shifts, hunting for a better fit, and her exposed skin steams too.

The water settles. Rose wavers.

"... Pearl?"

The draft comes. She expects that. But Rose watches, gently stunned, as a lean shape parts the steam from the water like the stern of a ship: blankets Rose from above in welcome chill.

"Oh." One overwhelmed yelp of a laugh. "Oh, Pearl, this really…" turns to a gasp when the cold comes to cover her again, from throat to thigh. "You're…" Rose shivers on a moan, lip pinched. She folds into herself.

Collateral water spills forgotten to the tile, along with any fear of overheating: Rose feels pinned by the cold for all the warmth in her, around her -- both hands, just how she likes -- pleasure curls her frantic and bangs her elbows blue against the walls of the tub, sore demanding good and Rose almost sobs to meet it -- ushered into helpless glow -- curled into herself best she can as her body rings, and rings, rings.

Shivering. Not cold. Heart yammering: again. But slower. She breathes, deep. Rose has to shift. She did something to her ankle. Scraped on the faucet. But most of her feels blurred at the edges like a… Like a chiaroscuro, like watercolor… She hums, long. Can feel it buzzing the bone around her brain. "Pearl," she mumbles.

She shifts; The water follows her with silky sounds. This won't be comfortable much longer. She finagles the plug with her heel -- feels it _pop_ loose, hears the water start to guzzle down the pipe.

"Pearl?"

She waits. No more scent of Chanel No 5, not that Rose can trace. And the cooling water and skin just the regular bathtub aftermath.

Rose's ribs wring. "Did you leave?" It comes out quieter than she wants. Maybe… maybe whatever borrowed power Pearl had burnt out, collapsed on itself. Especially this time of day? Too much too fast? Is that how it works? _Que'est-ce que tu fais?_

If Rose could just hear her. Without sleeping all day for the chance of a lucky dream. Without windchimes.

If Pearl could talk to her through the door. Right now. Knock on the wood with her knuckles and say, something like, _Rose_ , _are you a raisin yet? Do you need a towel?_ Or _Sorry, I need the drain cleaner. Can I come in?_ Or _Garnet's here. I made coffee._

Pearl here _with_ her. Grayer, too, tired too. But smiling. Curled in bed, safe. Each other's favorite hiding place.

It stings. The faucet softens and blurs. Like a chiaroscuro. Like watercolor. Rose can't find the energy to scrub at her eyes as The water drains.

It _stings_ : elbows, ankles, knees. Where she moved against herself, stayed too long. Where smeary bruising will stain like a painter’s plate.

The last of the water drains. But Rose doesn't move for some time. She lies, warmth fading, quiet as a still-life.


End file.
